


go anywhere with you

by takingyournarrative



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: But mostly fluff, Dancing, M/M, Mary Keay (referenced) - Freeform, Mary Keay's A+ Parenting, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27708013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingyournarrative/pseuds/takingyournarrative
Summary: Gerry was beautiful. Michael had known for a while now, had watched the curve of his mouth, the amber of his eyes a little too intently. Perhaps it was right that it should be now they ran away; now, with his hands on Gerry’s face, washing it of blood and tears, attentive to a fault.in which they run away and streetlights are described gratuitously
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Comments: 11
Kudos: 47





	go anywhere with you

They were dancing under a streetlamp. No music — nothing but Gerry’s humming, muffled slightly where his face was pressed against Michael’s chest, and the persistent cricket-song in the dark trees. Michael felt light. Shaky and a bit afraid, but safe with Gerry’s arm wrapped around his waist, his other hand tangled in Michael’s. They had nowhere to be and nowhere to go; the bus had left them outside the city and they had wandered into the suburbs. Row on row of matching houses, cracked sidewalks and the remnants of chalk drawings by the neighborhood children. Trees lining the street, orderly. It was a stopgap; a place they would pass through by morning and forget by the next sunset. It was somebody’s everything — one of the children asleep in the high windows knew every leaf and flower without noticing, knew them so well that maybe they knew nothing at all. But it was not theirs, and they were glad of it.  
Gerry ran his hand up and down Michael’s back, and it was familiar and soothing and Michael laughed a little, pressed him closer. His voice cut off and Michael felt kisses pressed to the base of his neck — his shoulder — his collarbones.  _ Breathe in. Hold the moment in your lungs. Breathe out and believe you will be okay. _

Gerry at his window at sunset, bloody-smudged and tear-streaked. Mary, of course; Mary, pushing him, in the end, to the point he was always going to reach. “I can’t — not again, not alone again, Michael, please—” and Michael, because he loved Gerry, packed bags for both of them while Gerry sat on his bed and breathed.  _ Breathe in,  _ Michael said, folding sweaters into their packs.  _ Good, hold that. Breathe out now. You’re going to be okay.  
_ He had wanted to clean Gerry up first but he had insisted on their being packed — “if your parents wake up, Michael; we need to be ready to go” — and it was a relief to have the satchels clasped and set by the window, so he could take Gerry’s hands in his and lead him to the bathroom.   
Gerry was beautiful. Michael had known for a while now, had watched the curve of his mouth, the amber of his eyes a little too intently. Perhaps it was right that it should be now they ran away; now, with his hands on Gerry’s face, washing it of blood and tears, attentive to a fault. The way his eyes fluttered closed when Michael was near, when he was touching him; the softness of his skin underneath Mary’s rough treatment; the slight pink in his cheeks, which might have been a bloodstain or might have been a blush. Michael could feel his breath, shaky and hesitant still in the air between them.   
“You’re good,” Michael said at last, and it came out a whisper. Gerry opened his eyes and smiled, just slightly, the image of sweet satisfied melancholy.  
Gerry opened his mouth as if to say something — closed it — raised a hand instead to brush against Michael’s cheek. He stopped, lingered with his hand pressed to Michael’s jaw, the side of his chin. Soft eyes. Frightened. Hopeful.  
Michael froze. “What—?”  
“Michael. You know.”   
It sounded like a plea, and Michael hardly dared to breathe.   
“May I?”   
A nod only from Michael and Gerry was there, arms draped over his shoulders, kissing him breathless.  _ Why this, why now?  _ It was all he could think, but it was not a complaint. Gerry’s hair was tangled but soft in his hands, and he whispered Michael’s name like an invocation, and his body was warm where their limbs pressed together.   
“We have to go,” he said at last, and Michael, blushing and stunned, only took his hand and followed him to the window.   
Again, standing outside the house in a moment of frozen uncertainty, Gerry reached for Michael, pressed his lips to his wrists, his cheek, the corner of his mouth — almost idly. Michael leaned into the touch and wondered at it. Reveled in it.   
On the bus, Gerry collapsed against Michael, let him put an arm around his shoulders and draw him closer. The windows were smudged, dirty, but outside the lights of the town passed, familiar streetlamps and half-lit motel signs falling behind them as the world turned dark. Trundling on through the country, and Gerry whispered in Michael’s ear —  _ thank you, I love you, I hope this is okay, I want this to be okay, are you sure this is okay? — _ and Michael kissed his forehead and he smiled and fell into an uneasy sleep.   
The city glimmered into view, first only a few spots of red and white and yellow and then all at once the neon signs and late-night apartment windows lit gold. It was loud, and Gerry stirred, caught his bearings, smiled sleepily at Michael. “What time is it?”  
It was three in the morning. The city passed by in a blur, car horns and sirens, the familiar smell of cigarette smoke whenever the bus stopped. Gerry took Michael’s hands and traced spirals on his palms, drew little circles on his wrists. Michael’s eyes fluttered closed, and he allowed small electric shivers to pass through his hands, up his arms. He was safe here.

Gerry’s humming had resumed, and he was sweeping Michael faster now under the streetlamps, from one pool of light to the next, spinning him, dipping him until his hair almost -- almost, but not quite — brushed the sidewalk, then gathering him close again until they were both dizzy and giggling, drunk on their newfound freedom. They stumbled at last onto a low stone wall, and Gerry held Michael’s hand in both his own and looked at him, and there was nothing, nothing but the intensity of his eyes on Michael’s face. Michael blushed, and Gerry smiled and kissed his cheek.   
“Thank you, Michael.”  
“What for?”  
“This. Running — leaving with me. You didn’t have to—”  
“You know I’ll follow you anywhere, Gerry.”  
A long sigh — contented, but perhaps a little sad. “I know.”  
They sat back, let the night breeze and the crickets lull them for a moment. Here, in this frozen suburban wasteland, where maybe the night would go on forever if they didn’t move. The people in the houses would sleep peacefully and the crickets would sing, and summer would never end. This stopping-point would cradle them and not let them go.  
“Do you want to go on?” Michael asked after a while, and Gerry nodded, murmured a yes. Michael stood and offered him a hand.   
They left it behind, and they would almost forget it, and nobody on the street had seen them to remember. The memory of their dance was lost already to the concrete and the moths buzzing against the streetlights, and people would walk over it and never know.  
They were going to be okay.


End file.
